Eventually he crossed the familiar plain of rock, seamed with patches of russet and purple, until he reached the farmhouse. ‘Fabio!’ He whistled. ‘Fabio! A ship!’ His older brother came out upon the loggia covered with vines. ‘It must be German. Is that not so, Fabio?’

  The brothers lived alone in the farmhouse. It was two years since their parents had died of malaria, the evil of an island where in the southern part mosquitoes rose above sluggish streams and swamps. He and Fabio had taken their bodies to Nacoro, the island of the cemetery. A priest lived there with a fisherman who acted as the grave-digger. From the small jetty on Nacoro they dragged their parents’ bodies, clothed in shrouds of stitched goatskins, to the white chapel a few hundred yards from the shore. They also brought with them some rings and bracelets of gold that their mother had hoarded for payment. Every family had a small treasury for the funerals. Theo’s parents were buried among the hills and fields of stubble to the sound of the cicada and the grasshoppers. The boys took it in turns to row back to their island, satisfying their sudden hunger with coarse bread and the root of the fennel.

  The farmhouse never changed. The rectangular loggia, always in the shade, opened into a large room that contained a stove and an old-fashioned olive press. Above the stove was a cuckoo clock and a framed photograph of the pope. A chest of drawers was placed against the opposite wall, on top of which were various small ornaments of pink and green glass. A set of rooms behind the kitchen harboured agricultural implements, piles of lemons and of oranges, and bundles of dried figs. On the second floor, accessible only by a ladder, were the living quarters of Fabio and Theo. They had once been obliged to share a bed but now each brother had his own bedroom; the beds were made of dried goatskin stuffed with feathers, and above them were medallions of the Virgin Mary. The walls and ceilings of the house were blackened with smoke, emanating from the stove, and the only light came from the open door onto the loggia. The hens scratched at the straw that covered the floor.

  At the back of the house were two large cisterns to contain the rain that fell from November until April, when the ravines and ridges were striated with white mist and when torrents of water washed away the loose soil by the sides of the streams. Mushrooms sprang out of the damp earth. This was the season when Theo, following the example of his mother, picked the dandelion and the plantain. It was the abundant time. The least scrap of garden was now precious, and he gathered up the piles of dried olive leaves, the remains of dead cacti, cabbage roots and other sweepings and mixed the mould with the rich soil of a plot surrounded by stone walls. Every hollow in the rocky ground of the yard became a natural vessel in which to grow broad beans, or lettuce, or fennel.

  From the fields he gathered green almonds, and from the coast he brought back sea urchins with their orange fruit. He did not like the sea. None of the inhabitants of these islands did. He blessed himself before entering the water for fear of sea witches but, in its shallows between the rocks, he could catch with his hands the light brown fish known as cernia. Sometimes he cooked up a thin gruel, known optimistically as zuppa di pesce, but it was at least an addition to their familiar diet.

  Once a month they killed a goat, and could survive on its flesh for several days. Fabio, as the older brother, was the custodian of the goats; he was their companion as well as their leader. He knew their impishness, their air of mocking obedience, and their audacity. Yet when he put his knife to the throat of the animal, he had an expression of rapture; any pity had been replaced by a strange and almost impersonal rejoicing.

  Every two weeks Theo rowed west to the island of Leucothea, where he bartered goat’s milk and vegetables for the local bread. It was the most populous of the islands, some of it so smooth that it looked as if it had been carved by an artist. A cluster of houses, painted white or blue or yellow, lay in the middle regions of the mountain that dominated the smooth plains. Its port was in constant traffic with the mainland, and Theo learned much gossip about the course of the war from the islanders. The English and the Americans had landed in Sicily. The Germans had fought back. The English and Americans were planning an assault upon the mainland. The Germans were about to occupy all of Italy. No one knew what to believe, or what to fear.

  On Caldera an image of the saint of the island, Santa Regilia, stood at the end of a mountain path among tall cypress trees; the area, fragrant with the scent of distant blossom, had always been for Theo sacred. There was a spring here, but it was warm and musty to the taste. The boy came from time to time in order to pay his respect to the statue, its colours and even its outline now gone with the wind and the rain; yet for him it retained its power. He always dressed for the occasion. He wore a red handkerchief tied about his neck, and an old Homburg hat that had belonged to his father. He took off the hat now and knelt before the statue. Santa Regilia was the patron of the simple-minded, the innocenti, but of course she spread her benevolence over all aspects of the island.

  Theo was asking her to provide a calm sea for his journey to Leucothea, but then on the following day he heard the explosion. In the first moment it sounded like a stone dropped into a pond, but then the blast brought him to his feet. He ran down the path, gulping in breath; he fell badly and gashed his knee but he felt no pain. He could see the smoke rising into the air; he had bitten his tongue and the blood flowed freely into his mouth.

  The farmhouse had been struck by a rod of fire, dividing it into two clumps of ruin; as he slowly walked towards it he could see the body sprawled in the yard. He did not want to come too close. Half of the face had been blown away. ‘Fabio?’ He prodded his brother’s left foot with his shoe. Then he kicked it. He screamed out ‘Yooooo!’ and ran behind the farmhouse to the pen where the goats were kept secluded by silver-green hedges. He unfastened the wicker gate and circled around the animals. But they would not move out of the pen. They looked at him curiously, as if they already knew that Fabio was dead. He ran to the back of the herd and began to chase them through the open gate with screams and curses. When the last of them had fled he lay down and slept.

  He woke to the silence and the starlight. When he sat up he could see just ahead, at a depth he could not estimate, a dance of fireflies, silent lights, fuochi morti. The odour in the air was that of withered rosemary and cistus, as old as the stars. He shivered and stood up, chastened by his solitude. He could feel grief for his brother’s absence, but he did not want to return to the body; he had a vision of the island itself concealing it and laying it to rest. Had it been a grenade, or an aimless shot from a patrol at sea? English or German? It did not matter. But he thought he heard English voices above him, together with the sound of laughter.

  He followed a familiar rugged path for some time until he came to a bay beside a beach overgrown with rushes and with sea thistle; above them rose the cliffs, which intensified the darkness all around him. But he knew his way. He climbed over some rocks on the margin of the sea and then drew himself upwards by taking hold of the fern and the roots of fig trees that had penetrated the crevices; he trod softly on a ridge covered with tall grasses until he came to the recess he sought. He had to move carefully. Wolves sometimes inhabited the caves of this escarpment. He edged downwards into the dank space and lowered himself onto a ledge of rock that partially concealed the cave. Through rifts and fissures in the rock he caught glimpses of the sea, and the cave resounded with the crash of waves pounding the stone shore. Yet here he could not be seen. It was cool, not cold, and dry.

  For the next few days the cave became his home, from which he made various forays for food and water. By crawling to its furthest reach, closest to the sea, he could look out from an aperture in the rock; from here he watched the white streaks that sometimes emerged upon the blue surface. Were they the traces of sea witches, or of mermaids? One morning an English patrol boat crossed the sea in front of him; it lost its speed and then turned towards the island. For a moment it seemed to be moving towards him; but he realised that it was making its way to the inlet close to his cave.

  He was not alarmed because he knew that he could not be seen. It took only a moment to convince himself, however, that these were the men somehow responsible for the death of Fabio and the destruction of the farmhouse. After a few minutes he ventured outside and crept towards the inlet, just in time to see four English soldiers making their way up the path he always took to the shore.

  He followed them carefully and when they turned to the left just before reaching a grove of old pine trees he knew where they were going. The surface was firmer here, kept in place by the remnants of narrow red bricks, and as he climbed upwards he could see the outline of an ancient villa with its loggia, corridors, and rooms still containing fragments of marble pavement. An old well-head lay close by among the grass and foliage. He had only come here once before, since it was known as a male sito that might drag you back to the time when this villa had stood intact. His parents had not known its age. It had always been here.

  You could only free yourself of its grip if you ran out into the sun and climbed a further three hundred yards to the tower on the summit of the hill. This was a torre di guardia, built as a watch against pirates. Theo had seen them on other islands, from which the inhabitants could survey the threatening sea. This must have been why the English had come to this place.

  He was kicked, and fell to the ground. As he lay sprawled in the dust he look up and saw a young soldier grinning at him. The man held out both hands, as if miming surrender, and laughed. He signalled him to get up and, as he rose, he kicked him again. Then he beckoned him to follow him. He pushed him through the entrance to the tower before shouting something. The soldier led Theo up some winding brick stairs until they reached an observation platform, with brick arches framing a number of open views. Six soldiers were standing here, two of them leaning out to gaze at the sea and the island below. The man who had taken him went up to one of his colleagues and whispered something to him. He seemed to have some remnants of authority in a beleaguered platoon.

  ‘You, boy,’ the officer said to Theo. ‘Where do you live? Dove abiti?’ He spoke in the dialect of northern Italy, or what Theo knew as ‘baby Italian’.

  ‘Abito qua. Su quest’isola.’

  ‘Where is your family?’

  He put up one finger. ‘I live alone.’

  ‘Good.’ The officer stepped closer to him. ‘Have you seen any Germans? Jerries? Huns?’

  ‘Niente.’

  ‘And you know the island well?’

  ‘Certo, signore.’

  ‘The boy understands English better than I do. Perhaps he has a teacher.’ He kicked Theodore again. ‘Stay away from the Germans. They will kill you. They are evil devils’. He took a coin out of his pocket, tossed it in the air and caught it. ‘We will return here every week. At this time. Keep watch for any Germans. If you lead us to them, I will give you fifteen lire for each man. Do you understand?’

  Theo understood well enough. He had often seeen money changing hands from soldiery to islanders. ‘You’re a handsome kid. Molto bello. Do you understand that?’ He grabbed the boy and to the amusement of the other soldiers pretended to wrestle with him, taking care to caress his bum and private parts. Then he pulled down the boy’s short trousers, and with a tin of axle grease penetrated him. ‘This is what the Gemans do. And worse. Capisci?’ Theo nodded but looked down at the ground. He would not look at the man who had assaulted him. He would not look at the soldiers who had killed his brother and destroyed the farmhouse. ‘You can go now. But don’t forget. Fifteen lire for each German.’

  As soon as he left the tower he began to run down the slope into the welcoming embrace of the wild palm and the olive trees. It was at this moment that he vowed revenge on the Englishmen. He had not the slightest knowledge of how to proceed, yet this was now his island. He was alone. He needed to protect it and to preserve its honour.

  On the following morning he left the cave and bathed in the clear water of the inlet. The patrol boat had gone. All around him the stone was carved into delicate shapes by the incessant motion of the waves. He threw pebbles against the face of the cliff, disturbing some rock doves. Later in the day he made his way slowly and indirectly to a stream with a bed of small white stones; in this spot he liked to sit and look out to sea. For a moment he thought he saw the wake of something rippling in the water, but it was gone.

  He knew that he could never return to the farmhouse – he did not wish to imagine what he would find if he went back – and his journeys now always avoided that fixed point in his past. He went instead to quiet places, secluded places, places where the trees touched one another to form a canopy.

  A few days after his encounter with the English, he climbed up to the forest of fir, beech and pine that flourished in the northern part of the island; he plunged into the sea of glittering bracken that reached up to his waist, but stopped suddenly when he saw that another track had been made. A trail of crushed and broken foliage curved between the trees, where someone had walked or run through the forest. Theodore, alerted to the presence of a stranger, stood quite still; then he ducked down in the fear that he might be seen. There was no sound except for the chirping of the cicada and the rasp of the grasshoppers.

  He was still for some minutes, but nothing stirred. He stood upright, and saw nothing. The trail might have been made by a goat or a sheep that had strayed; with a new-found confidence he decided to follow the path. He walked along it through the trees, savouring the dankness of the crushed bracken, until he came to a small hollow or clearing; an area had been flattened out just at a point where a vantage could be taken of this part of the island. He noticed something on the ground that looked to him like the butt of a cigarette. As he stooped to pick it up, he heard a voice.

  ‘Aha! Vuoi una sigaretta? Ecco qua. Prendi. Camels.’ Theo turned to see a tall man standing behind him. He shook his head in reply to his question. ‘Too strong? I know.’ He pointed to himself. ‘German.’ Theo must have registered a look of shock or fear. ‘I’m not the devil, you know.’ Around the man’s neck hung a pair of binoculars, and Theo noticed a revolver tucked into his khaki belt. ‘Where is your family?’

  ‘I am alone.’

  ‘Are you? I am alone, too. Two alones.’ This German spoke fluently the language of the region. ‘Welcome.’ A small tent had been erected just at the edge of the area, beneath the trees. A kettle stood on a primus stove outside the tent, together with tin cutlery and cans of food. ‘No place like home,’ the soldier said. He went inside the tent, and neatly folded a sleeping bag that lay crumpled on the ground. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirteen. Fourteen.’

  ‘Good to be sure. Where is your family?’

  ‘Dead. Malaria.’ He had no intention of mentioning Fabio.

  ‘Is that so? You are a survivor then.’

  ‘There is food and water on the island.’

  ‘Now that’s where you may be able to help me. My name is Andreas, by the way. And you?’

  ‘Theodore.’

  ‘A good name. Do you fancy a cup of coffee, Theodore?’ He had not had a hot drink since the day before the farmhouse was destroyed. He nodded, but the soldier had already begun to light the primus stove. ‘It is quiet here,’ the German said as they sat together on the forest floor. ‘In Sicily it was not so quiet.’ He lit a cigarette and lay down, looking up at the canopy of trees. ‘I can sometimes hear the bombs, on a quiet day. How did you come here?’

  ‘I climbed through the forest, safe from hostile eyes.’

  ‘So you know the island well.’

  ‘Oh yes. Every part of it.’

  ‘Have you seen any Englishmen?’

  It took him only a moment to lie, and avoid any complications. ‘No. You are the only foreigner. Yet you speak Italian.’

  ‘My mother comes from Sicily.’

  The morning had grown humid, so that the leaves and branches around them seemed to be bathed in moisture. ‘I can’t sleep at night,’ the German said. ‘There is no breeze.’

  Yet only three days later the wind started up. It came from the south, bringing with it a veil of grey mist that crept over the hills and penetrated the crevices of the rocks; the odour of decay and dissolution rose up from the moist floor of the forest, and its carpet of vegetation, even as the beeches began to turn to gold. ‘The damp is getting to me,’ the soldier told Theo. ‘I am aching all over. And my head hurts.’ His face was drained of colour, and there was a slight tremor in his left eye. Theo brought him figs and green almonds, but the German put them aside; instead he mixed water with sugar, and drank it off in deep draughts.

  On the following morning he was shivering in his sleeping bag. ‘I’m not so good,’ he said. Theo knew the signs from his mother and father. ‘I was burning up in the night.’ He was even weaker on the next day. ‘The quinine doesn’t help,’ he said. ‘It makes me sick. There is a band of Englishmen somewhere on the island, even if you have not yet seen them.’

  ‘The English are fools. They speak freely because they do not know that I speak their language. I can understand the words from my years in Realschule. This is what I learn. They are stranded and seek means of recovery. These are six men from a small platoon in an English village called Little Camborne. Remember that place. It may be important. I want to show you something which may be connected with these men. They spoke of treasure which had been taken from this island back to England. Of course, you cannot believe soldiers’ tales, but they spoke only to one another. I stole this from the sergeant I killed in the forest. It looked important.’ He handed to Theo a piece of paper from a saddle-bag at the back of the tent upon which were drawn a number of squares and circles. He pointed to one of the larger circles.

  ‘Here is their village, which they call Little Camborne. This is a field. There are figures here which may be metres or yards. Who knows? But here is a sign. An “X”. I believe this is the treasure they discusssed. I cannot think what else it can be. Can you?’ Theo shook his head. The soldier handed the map to the boy. ‘Keep it safe. Leave it to your children, if you must. Someone will find the place one day.’ Theo folded the paper and put it in the pocket of his threadbare trousers; even then he made a promise to himself that, one day, he would travel to England in order to decipher the map and exact revenge on the English devils.